


Taking Time Apart

by aralias



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (1963), Doctor Who (Big Finish Audio)
Genre: Audio 50: Zagreus, M/M, Madness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-20
Updated: 2011-04-20
Packaged: 2017-10-18 10:15:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/187832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aralias/pseuds/aralias
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short scene that didn't happen while the Doctor (now mostly Zagreus) raged around his ship, looking for answers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Taking Time Apart

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Разбирая время по косточкам](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6273439) by [Kollega](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kollega/pseuds/Kollega)



> If you ain't heard 'Zagreus' the chances of you understanding what's going on here are very slim.

“No, no, no,” the Doctor mutters, “I know you, don’t I?”

The other man smiles. He raises an eyebrow. “Do you?”

“Yes,” the Doctor insists. “You’re my accountant- No!” he reconsiders, “my driving instructor! Yes, you’re my driving instructor, my- No. Are you? I don’t remember, but I do, I _do_ know you.” He says this insistently, and then ruins it with a look to the other man, an appeal for confirmation.

The man’s smile widens, but he says nothing.

“Not my driving instructor or my accountant,” the Doctor says, turning away. “No.” There must be a clue around here somewhere, but there are just books, titles gleaming gold: _Faust, Paradise Lost, Persuasion_. The Doctor shakes his head. More books. Why does he have so many books? Books, books, books, everywhere, and it’s no good looking in them for answers. He turns back to the other man, whose teeth are pointed, whose beard is dark against his face: no longer streaked with grey. Of course, he’s always bearded, yes, he always has a beard, usually not a very good beard. Except the last time, but that was someone else’s body. But then so was the one before.

The Doctor looks at the man again, and this time he is clean shaven, taller - taller and clean shaven. “You know,” the Doctor says, feeling the anger building at the front of his skull, “if you stopped changing for a _moment_ I might know who you were by now.”

“I’m sorry,” the man says, and, this time, his voice has a foreign twang to it. He spreads his hands. “But it’s beyond my control.”

“Rubbish,” the Doctor says. “You’re the-” He pauses.

“Yes?” the other asks. He’s changed again. Another beard and a square jaw: a dandy’s necktie and a pristine waistcoat.

“No, I don’t know this one,” the Doctor says, a little helplessly. The man changes again, obediently: his new face is young and pointed. His white shirt is so bright it seems to glow. The Doctor shakes his head. “No,” he says. “These are too old. You were younger. Ah!” he realises as there is another change, back to the man with the American accent. “I knew you at school! When _you_ were younger, and _I_ was younger, that’s right, isn’t it? In fact, yes, yes, I remember, you could say we were at school together. I’m right, aren’t I? I knew you at school, but you had another name.”

“Quite right,” the American says. His eyes are pin-pricks of green light in the stupid darkness the stupid ship has thrown them into. “It was-”

“Koschei,” the Doctor says. “Yes, I remember.” He frowns. “You, it was you — you - you fell,” he says with realisation.

The other man raises different, darker eyebrows. His eyes are dark too. “You pushed me.”

“No, I didn’t,” the Doctor says, outraged. “ _No_ , I didn’t. I merely diverted the light from the northwest reflector staff and it caught you in mid leap, as it were, and then you-” he looks at the other, who is watching him intently with eyes ringed with black kohl. “Oh god,” the Doctor says, burying his face in his hands, “I did. _I did_. I pushed you, I’m sorry, Master, I’m so sorry.”

The Master reaches up to stroke the Doctor’s cheek with a gloved hand, “My dear-”

 _“DON’T TOUCH ME,_ ” Zagreus roars, and his own hand smacks against the other’s face, his own palm rings with the impact. The anti-time crackles around his vision and his throat and he feels the rage within him. He looks at the Master, because that’s who it is, his stupid other self has worked this out at last. The Master, his best friend, his nemesis, his lover, his — well, it doesn’t matter now. The Master, sliding fluidly between forms just as he always did in reality: a dark bruise forming over his various cheeks. _“What are you doing here?”_ Zagreus demands.

“I was already here,” the Master says, very unhelpfully.

“And you thought you’d stop by and say hello,” Zagreus says, “well, that’s very thoughtful, Master, very thoughtful, thank you, but I don’t want you here.”

“Oh, come now, Doctor-”

 _“THAT IS NOT MY NAME.”_

The Master laughs: a light gentlemanly chuckle, though Zagreus’s fingers are at his neck, holding onto the fabric at his throat which changes from wool to velvet to leather to wool again. “My dear Zagreus,” he says, and then, when Zagreus nods, vigorously, for him to continue, “of _course_ you want me here.”

 _“Why?”_ Zagreus asks. “Why do I want you here?” He can hear it coming out as a question, more than a demand, and to emphasise his control of the situation slams the Master back into a bookcase. Two volumes are shaken loose by the impact, and he looks at them quickly in case they contain answers, but it’s just _Where’s Spot?_ and another book he can’t see clearly. _“Why do I want you here?”_ he asks the Master again, feeling the roar of anti-time in his mouth.

“The Doctor wouldn’t need to ask,” the Master says.

 _“Nor do I,_ ” Zagreus says, releasing the Master and whirling away. But he’s uncertain, and afraid, and angry, and he turns back to the Master who is still here, short and bearded. “It’s… because I know you,” he says tentatively. “I don’t know this, but I know you. You I know how to deal with, Master. _Master?_ That’s right, isn’t it?”

The Master smiles, and this time when he reaches up to stroke the Doctor’s face, Zagreus leans into him and closes his eyes. He lets himself be kissed: his face is and is not scratched by a variety of unwise facial hair. Then the other man withdraws.

“No. Don’t go!” Zagreus says, desperately, as the Master starts to walk away from him. “I know you. _I know you. You have to tell me what’s going on._ Master? _Master? Come back!”_

The Master laughs, and turns back. “Do you know what’s really going to upset you later on?”

“What?” the other demands, though he suspects he doesn’t want to know.

“I _fell_ ,” the Master, the American in the Gallifreyan robes, says thoughtfully, “into the Eye of Harmony in your ship. _This_ is your ship. So, Doctor, two _explanations_ for my presence exist. One: I could be using your ship’s momentary lapse of concentration to project myself here, or, two: I am merely a projection of myself by your ship. You can enjoy that one later.” He winks, with all the eyes he has ever had - dark brown, bright blue, black, white, green, amber - and vanishes.

The Doctor’s head hurts. He almost wishes the Cat would come back instead.


End file.
